


Hope

by shittershutter



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 13:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11715138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: The sweat is forming at his hairline, and he feels Collins' hand pushing back, colder fingers circling his own, and he releases the sharp gasp he doesn't know he is holding.Collins' fingers climb his forearm inside the sleeve leaving no room for a misunderstanding."Take me home," Collins says into the sky.





	Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [希望](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11984526) by [ophelia0306](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ophelia0306/pseuds/ophelia0306)



> Historical porn is not really my forte but hey, I can do it once. 
> 
> * Unbetad. I'm sorry.

Farrier is waiting for war. As a part of the war generation, for most of his life he waits for the monster to come back. 

He can see the same dark anticipation mirrored on people's faces, in the shadows of their wrinkles and the dulled glimmer of their eyes. He can feel it in tense necks of his commanders. He can detect it in the pressure between his own eyes. 

He's done a dozen of "observational flights" due to "international tensions" this week so he almost can feel the hungry grumble of the monster right under the ground he's standing on. 

Farrier exhales the bitter smoke into the night sky willing some of his anxiety to fly away with it and turns his head to watch Collins' face. 

Collins shows up on the base one day like a ray of sunshine breaking through the mist and gloom of London. With the straw-light hair and the eyes of that kind of blue you can only see when you fly.

The most unsettling thing about his face is that it's unmarred by the war, past or upcoming. Half of it is a generational thing -- Collins is young enough not to have a personal brush with the unforgiving history. Part of it is just who Collins is. 

It's just open, almost vulnerable, with a layer of professional detachment on top which Farrier can see right through. 

Farrier is in love with that face from the moment they shake hands. 

The sky looks strange so high for them both, impersonal. Like a worn-out photograph from an old album. They stare and stare as the smoke they breathe out rises higher than they ever can without the wings, and Farrier touches the other's hand. 

It's no different than being inside the smoke-filled underground club, candles and red curtains and all. Aside from the risk of being discharged and jailed, Farrier has to admit to himself, there is a thrill. 

There is a protocol to it, a slow, tentative brush first, light enough to be accidental, where one waits and waits to be heartbroken and doomed for what seems like centuries. 

He feels Collins' hand staying firmly in place, reassuringly warm. His pale profile is illuminated by the moon, and for a moment Farrier thinks that whatever comes next, he'll always at least have this moment frozen in his memory.

The sweat is forming at his hairline, and he feels Collins' hand pushing back, colder fingers circling his own, and he releases the sharp gasp he doesn't know he is holding. 

Collins' fingers climb his forearm inside the sleeve leaving no room for a misunderstanding. 

"Take me home," Collins says into the sky. 

* * * 

"Home" is a bit too generous for his accommodation but at least it's not the barracks. 

The heating and water are on and off, and he probably should've done something about the cobweb in every corner. But as his dossier wisely says, he strives under limitations. Paranoid or not, Farrier is still pretty capable of wooing an occasional pretty boy with his modest collection of records, a bottle of booze and some early morning shagging for a desert. 

Collins strikes him as a wine person. In another, peaceful life when all the clocks ticked slower, that is. 

Farrier himself has been punching his fatalism in the head with the cheapest bourbon he can find for quite a while. But it doesn't even cross his mind to defile those lips with a vulgar brew like this. 

He kisses the lips in question as soon as the door closes like he's a drowning man. Like his last chance for surviving is a few hot, tobacco scented gulps of air Collins shares with him. 

Collins kisses him back like they have a happy life in front of them, green grass and blue sky and all. It's so soft and reassuring and aside from a light stubble burn it gives the fragile and forgotten feeling of hope.

He unwraps the younger man like a present, layer after layer, buckle after buckle until he gets to the skin. Then he just stares. It's been a while, years of dark alley hookups and short club meetings, years since he laid his eyes on a naked male flesh for this long, with this much light around them. 

He studies patterns of veins, moles, and scars pressed into the pale skin. Like a map, he tries to memorize each one in case he never gets to see them again. 

"Am I not to your liking or what?" Collins finally speaks, his voice light. 

The pulse in his neck Farrier rubs his face against is thunderous in contrast. 

"You're exactly what I need, love. Just give me a moment." 

Collins hums and stands still, bless him, as the nervous fingers count his ribs and skim along the waistband. Then he leans in and starts shedding Farrier's clothes with the quiet efficiency he's known for above ground. 

"If it's your idea of seduction, it's a bit unorthodox but it works, he mumbles shyly, nodding down at his groin.

Actually, Farrier's idea of seduction is flopping on his back like a dead fish and spreading his legs to get the point across. Saves him a lot of precious breath, a lot of words that are illegal to be spoken out loud. 

It does a mighty fine job of expressing his lust for having a thick cock up his arse so deep he can't see straight, ramming into him so hard it yanks him from the dark future he dreads into the present, reminding him exactly who he is.

It gives him a brief sense of peace. Farrier is oddly resigned to the idea of flying into hell licked by the flames, full-speed. Like his mama and her holy book promised he would. 

He spreads his knees as wide as they go so Collins can see how hard he is, so hard he is leaking. His legs are shaking treatcherously but the younger man chokes on his breath and seems to be admiring the view. 

Collins is blond all over, he notes, up to the soft dusting of hair on his thighs. The bulb above his head sets the hair alight, so it glows like he's some deity who descended to save Farrier from himself. 

Farrier kisses him until his mouth is swollen red. Makes him suck on his fingers until the saliva is dripping down his forearm. 

He opens himself up with those fingers, hard, merciless thrusts as Collins looks on, his hand claw-like on his thigh. 

"Easy now," he whispers, catches Farrier's forearm when the rhythm gets too violent and angles it just right. They move together then, slower, and echo each other's breathless moans as they go.

Collins gets him boiling in sweat when he's finally fully inside. He's careful and surgically efficient just like Farrier imagined him to be -- and he's done enough imagining when in bed late at night -- not even the violent shakes get in the way of him staying still.

It hurts in a familiar way and Farrier turns his head to gasp into the pillow so the other man doesn't see the anguish. He appreciates the feeling, how it anchors him, brings him to the place where he's nailed to the bed by the strong hips. So he's only there and now, nowhere else.

He comes to it when Collins tears the wet pillow from his face, interlacing their fingers together. 

It takes all of the strength to look up but immediately after he does he's nailed again by those eyes, bright, honest. Looking down at him with something sticky sweet like adoration. 

He lets out a sob that is foreign to his own ears and surges up for the kiss. Collins gives him one. Gives him a hard, shallow rhythm to gasp about, too. 

All the tension leaks out of him through the pores, his limbs turning into hot rubber, the grip of his knees around the other man's ribs is falling apart. 

Collins' stomach rubs against his cock each time he bears down. Each time it's almost enough to bring him over the edge.

Then Collins pushes the other man's knees to his chest and slams into him a few times with brute force, deep. That does it, the surprise of it, the liberating feeling of his whole existence narrowing to the feeling of hard length inside as far as it can go.

He'd sound pathetic if he had any air left in his lungs. He comes with a silent shout instead clinging to the man's biceps like the mattress will swallow him if he doesn't. 

Collins is reaching for his hand again, grabbing it, limp, and slamming it against his chest right where his heart beats. It stays there like it belongs until he's spent, until his hips stop and he falls forward for Farrier's bulkier form to catch him. 

*** 

When the roaring of blood becomes quiet in his ears, he can hear the low voice talking, and he growls in a way that hopefully sounds like a question while trying to untangle from the sheet Collins covered him with. 

Collins is leaning against the window with a cigarette in his teeth -- and good god, his legs are so long, Farrier never noticed -- and looks back at him with the softness Farrier can't really bear. 

"I said, left side of the bed is always mine," he repeats, gesturing at the pillows. 

He absently scratches at all the come caking on his skin and adds: "So if there are any dents or squeaky springs in that mattress, you may want to take care of that."

Farrier blinks into the ceiling. Then a slow smile stretches his face to the limit that ceased to feel natural long ago. These are not the times to be hopeful, but as Collins butts the cigarette and forcefully pushes him to the other side of the bed to lie next to him for a moment or two, he is.


End file.
